A Door To Lock Eternity
by cysne
Summary: «Now there are nine hills and seven more green with grass, and through all the long years he lay by the door which he could not open. Where does it lead? Why did he wish to cross it? No one shall ever know!»


**Summary: Herein is the story of the simple man of Rohan, who's skeleton Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, found in the Path of the Dead.**

**Disclaimer: All the characters and places belong to the great JRR Tolkien, I just invented this short story as a tribute to him and his work. I always felt my heart tearing, whenever I read that passage of the books... It was just so tragic for one to lie there, forgotten by all. It vaguely reminded me of the tale of Túrin Turambar. I felt a background story was needed. The end is completely taken from "The Return of the King", so there might be some spoilers there, badly translated as it may be...**

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**A DOOR TO LOCK ETERNITY**

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That door... That door alone held all the answers that could ever bring him peace again. It drove him insane, yet spurred him on; it tormented him with uncertainty and still teasingly invited him in. He'd never seen it, but it was always present in his mind, and that image would be his undoing, he'd always known it.

But now was too late to go back. He crossed the stone arch and did not look behind any more. The sun would not shine for him ever again, if indeed it ever had. There was no more light; he was condemned, but he would find the truth before the end.

~*~

Son to a poor trader and without any other family, he had grown in the middle of markets and corrupt businesses. His father practised these, and insisted that he had to learn that art from tender age. But it was not quite so. Corrupt he'd grown and corrupt he became.

When he was but nine Winters old alone, he'd made his first robbery: a lonely traveller he'd caught in one of the endless deserted fields of Rohan. Proudly bearing his father's rusty knife, he'd gone out and slit the man's throat, without remorse or any kind of guilt, grabbed his gold and what other possessions he could take, and fled home.

When he got there, he'd given his earnings to his sire, but when he had told him of the way it had been acquired, his father just pulled out his belt and spanked him hard. He didn't understand, he'd done what the old man had always said hadn't he? "Get the gold, go after the gold, no matter what!" Well, he had. Then why was he doing this to him? He just wanted to make his father proud.

From that day, many had he killed and from many had he stolen, and he had become bitter and greedy with the passing years. Passing were also the great fortunes that had already gone by his hands. He seemed not to be able to keep the gold within his pouch. Too easily was it spent on gamble and drink, down at the local public house. There was even one time when he'd gotten a partner. They agreed to share whatever profits they made by half, but the other was too greedy, and he'd been forced to kill him afterwards.

This was his life, it had always been so, and he did not complain. True, it was not a good life, but it was better than nothing at all. Till one night came and everything changed.

He was about twenty-five, then. His father had died of some strange illness a few years back, and he'd been drinking away his sorrows and hurts, as usual. He had already drunk a fair score of ale and his head slurred. To the table next to his, there was a group of young men about his age, but somewhat younger still. They were having quite a cheerful discussion about some hidden treasure that belonged to some ancient family of that village.

Apparently, legend told of a fight between two brothers, over who was the rightful owner of the treasure, and that fight had ultimately caused for one brother to kill the other. It was said that, as he'd died, the brother had laid a curse on the other one and all of his family, saying that, in the end, their destiny would be the same than that of the treasure. Grief-stricken and fully conscious of his doings now, the remaining brother had fled into the Path of the Dead, taking all of the riches with him and leaving wife and child behind. There he hid it and closed it behind a thick door, so that it would never cause another to commit foul acts as he had. The brother was never seen again.

He was just thinking of how profitful it would be, if only the stories were true, when a name came out of the argument next to him. The name of the surviving brother, it was his family's name! And now that he thought about it, he did remember his father telling him some tale of old wealth and possessions... he'd even shown him some map. What if it was true?

Drinking up that final pint of ale, he left the pub without even a word to the keeper. He stumbled out into the streets and made his way back to the place he called home, troubled by greedy thoughts and sudden "what ifs". Before entering the house, he got to a barrel full of water and plunged his head in it, cooling his thoughts and the drinks' warmth.

Finally stepping inside, he went to a table, and in a surge of frustration threw everything to the ground. Where was that wretched map? He searched the whole house, everywhere, till he concluded it could only be in one place: amongst his father's things. But those he dared not touch. He sat back and drank again for the rest of the night, dreaming and hallucinating of wonderful treasures and immense wealth, heavier than one could carry.

The next morning brought with it a splitting headache and a merciless torment of anxiety and curiosity. He headed back to the pub, but it was nearly empty at that early hour, and there were no traces of the men from the night before. He asked the keeper for any information concerning them that he might have, but all he said was that he didn't remember anything of such a group, only of him not paying for his drinks. At that, he decided he would find nothing in the pub and hastily left the place. He questioned all the regular clients instead, but still none had any recollection of a group of the sort.

Eventually, he gave up and started wandering aimlessly the streets, just looking for those men and letting the thoughts of gold and precious stones slowly eat up his soul, on the inside. He no longer cared for anything else, and every day he felt that his mind grew more and more enthralled by the legend.

Some more rational part of him tried to fight it, claiming that he was a thief, there were plenty more riches out there! The world was his for the taking! And going into the Path of the Dead was madness. Day after day it struggled to light that mind with reason, and day after day it was weakened, for the amount of hidden gold in his head seemed to triple with every passing sun.

It was his family's gold, after all, his gold! What if those men, those thieves, had already stolen it? He had to have that treasure, it had to be his own! He had to see it, and touch it, and feel the metal's coolness against his skin. He just had to.

That day his mind was resolved, for better or for worse. He went home and opened a dusty trunk. From it, he pulled out an old, yet richly ornamented armour. He'd taken it from that first man he'd killed so long ago. Then, he had been too small to wear it, but now, it was just his size, as if it had been made just for him and had simply been waiting for him to put it on, after all those years.

On that day it had sealed his fate of becoming a thief, now it would see him through this as well. Either he lived or he died, there was no middle term. He also took his father's old blade. It was useless, but it was as important as that armour.

He saddled his horse with the utmost calmness, as if performing some ritual that he'd always known deep down in his heart. As he tried to mount, though, the beast would just step away, not giving him the opportunity to haul himself up. He left the horse behind. He understood that it had perceived his intentions and wished not to partake on them. It would not make a difference anyway, for the entrance was not far from there.

When he reached the entrance to the Path of the Dead he was surprised to find that his mind was empty and fear had abandoned him. He expected to be forming some plan on his mind, or perhaps to think of all he would do with the treasure. Subconsciously, he half hoped that some doubt or fear would rise at the last minute to discourage him, but it was not so.

That door... a passageway to doom or triumph. Now he would know whether he was meant to live this through or to die as his forefathers. Could those strangers at the pub have been nothing but the spirits of the dead? Now he would learn the truth, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Crossing the archway with determination in each stride, he soon found that his fears were indeed returning, making him tremble. The atmosphere was dark and heavy, and thus was also the oppression he was beginning to feel coming from all sides. He'd brought a torch and lighted it there, while looking all around, looking for the source of that heavy burden. He shouldn't have.

As the first flickers of light were seen, he'd been turned back, towards the doorway. He found not the light from the outside day, but only the light reflected in the eyes of a large man, standing immediately before him. He was so close, he could smell his putrid breath and the stench of decomposing flesh.

For brief seconds, he just stood there, paralysed, drowning in the terrible depth of those dark eyes, not so very different from his own. He knew his destiny then, but refused to accept it. He screamed in utter horror, dropped the torch and ran blindly further inside the cave.

But the fire had not gone out. The flames still illuminated some of the way, and by their light, he found a door answering their call. The door!... He had to reach it, no matter what. Not for the gold; no, he didn't care about that anymore, but for his soul, it was his only salvation. Even if his body was to die, his soul would never find rest without knowing the truth about what lay beyond that door.

He ran and ran, but he could not reach the door that had seemed to stand so close... His mind was slowing and a heavy veil seemed to fall over him, slowing him further. There it was, just a few more steps and he'd be there... He extended his arm and just as he touched the cold stone, he fell limply to the cold ground. So close, and yet so far...

Before releasing his final breath, he opened his eyes, and saw coming from beneath the door a faint glow. With a final attempt, he tried to drag himself towards it, but a dark foot blocked both his way and his view. Life abandoned him then and the air completely left his lungs.

**~ Epilogue ~**

_In the distance, to the left side, something shone in the darkness, when Aragorn's torch came near. Then Aragorn stopped and went to see what it was._

_(...)_

_Before him were the bones of a man that must have been well built. He wore chain mail, which had been golden and was still intact, for the cavern's air was as dry as dust. His belt was of gold and gems, and gold ornamented also the helmet that covered his bony head, fallen face down. It could be seen now that he'd fallen near the wall of the cave and before him rose a stone door, well sealed. The bones of his fingers still reached out as claws to the hinges. By his side laid a broken sword, as if in his final despair he'd attacked the rock with it._

_Aragorn did not touch him. After looking at him for a moment, in silence, he rose and breathed._

_"Here, the blossom of _simbelmynë_ shall never reach in the end of the world." He whispered. "Now there are nine hills and seven more green with grass, and through all the long years he lay by the door which he could not open. Where does it lead to? Why did he wish to cross it? __No__ one shall ever know!"_


End file.
